The music was loud—joyfully so—and it filled the bedroom like sunlight.

Poor old Johnny Ray, sounded sad upon the radio, broke a million hearts in mono... You belted out the lyrics with no regard for pitch, dancing around with a feather duster like it was the mic of your dreams. The laundry basket sat forgotten by the foot of the bed, shirts half-folded, socks in a sad little heap. You were supposed to be cleaning. You meant to be cleaning.

But how could anyone clean to a song like this?

You sang louder, spinning in front of the mirror, mouthing along dramatically: Our mothers cried... And sang along who'd blame them!

Your hips swayed, hair bouncing with each step as you hopped between your "chores," which now mostly involved pointing at your reflection and doing exaggerated dance moves you’d never dare try in front of another living soul.

Except… you weren’t alone.

When you turned—about to perform a truly ill-advised high kick—you saw him.

Aaron Warner. Leaning against the doorframe. Watching.

Not judging. Not frowning. Grinning.

You froze mid-move. The feather duster dropped from your hand. “How long have you been standing there?”

He tilted his head, arms crossed casually. “Long enough."

You covered your face with a mortified groan. “I was cleaning!”

He raised a brow. “Is that what you call that?”

Come on, Eileen—oh, I swear well he means! The chorus hit like a wave behind you, blaring through the speaker. And before you could recover, Aaron pushed off the doorframe and walked toward you, that teasing smile never leaving his face.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled as he came closer.

“And you’re enchanting,” he murmured, grabbing your hand.

He spun you around effortlessly, drawing a surprised laugh from your lips. When you stumbled, he caught you, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist.

“This is not cleaning,” you said, trying to scowl.

“This is better.”

At this moment, you mean everything...

The lyrics floated between you as the music softened just enough for you to hear the hum of his breath. He guided you gently, the two of you swaying in time with the rhythm, no real technique, just movement. Your bare feet brushed against his socked ones, your arms lazily looped around his neck.

“I didn’t know you danced,” you whispered, nose brushing his jaw.

“I don’t,” he said quietly. “But I do with you.”

You closed your eyes. Let yourself fall into it—the safety of his arms, the warmth of his chest, the thump of your heart trying to match his. The golden light from the window cast both of your shadows onto the floor, long and tangled.

Then, with absolutely no warning, Aaron dipped you dramatically.

You shrieked. “Aaron!”

He was laughing—actually laughing, not just a huff of amusement—and the sound made you laugh too, breathless and joyful.

He leaned down and kissed you, still smiling against your mouth.

Come on, Eileen too-loo rye-ay...